


The House up the Hill (ENG)

by Beethelesda



Category: Chris Hemsworth - Fandom, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom, hiddlesworth - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Victorian, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:58:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beethelesda/pseuds/Beethelesda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Australia has no color without you.<br/>My house on the ocean shore is ready to welcome thee.<br/>Come, make haste, my love!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The House up the Hill (ENG)

**Author's Note:**

> I have finally managed to translate one of my old works. (◡‿◡✿)  
> It took me two days but I still feel the need of more revision. Ah, I wish I was good at writing!

I have far too many memories of the house up the hill.

It appeared as a blessing after a ride God only knows how long.  
I had cursed every part of me along the way.  
What had I in mind when I took the ship and arrived in England?  
I could have stayed home, in my house, which was not on a hill, but I could see the ocean.

And then the border, the documents, the incessant rain and the smell of coal.  
London, horrible in my eyes, with that crowd disgustingly quick and black, under a sky that seemed forged and welded on the roofs. The Thames was nothing more than a line of slime crossed by fatigued boats.  
They said that they would have built a large drawbridge over, but at that time there were only four towers and some hanged men, accidental or not.  
And I started roaming with a knife in my pocket, just in case.  
Then I lost it.  
Scotland Yard recovered it later, plunged in the chest of a man I had never seen.  
I also have to admit that I was drinking too much in those days.  
But both Reading and New Haven were already full of desperate people, so I had the opportunity to take a nag and put as much distance as possible between me and all that misery.

 

  
The house up the hill was alone and had some sparse trees to its left, as if it was resting on a pillow, lying on its side.   
It had a double staircase and was extended to the right, with a glass veranda.   
The sun made it glint, in those rare times when the clouds deigned to move.  
Luckily I had in my pocket the old letter of recommendation from my father and there was no date on it.  
I did not want to present myself as a desperate.  
In fact, at first I thought not to introduce at all.

I walked around the house and saw no one. Maybe it was abandoned, but it was well kept and it was better not to risk.  
Beyond the trees there was a small building, a barn with two horses housed and two empty boxes. The fodder was in good conditions, but not fresh and the watering hole was half full.  
The two horses seemed intrigued by my mount and quite frightened by my arrival, as if they were not particularly accustomed to human contact.  
That barn was definitely not well frequented. Someone was in the house, but was not concerned with the horses.   
Perhaps the owner was looking for a groom.

I turned one of the empty boxes into a bed for a few hours. I washed as best as I could and lay down on the straw before taking a little nap. I hoped that no one would decide to come to ensure the health of their horses at that exact time.

I knocked at the main door in the afternoon, with my father's letter in my hand and the same itching that gamblers have while betting, when they feel they finally have a winning number.  
A young man opened. He was tall and lanky, his face was expressionless.  
«... what do you need?» He asked.  
«Are you... looking for a groom, right?»  
He looked me down from head to toe, then nodded. I held back a smile too broad.  
I handed out my letter of recommendation, but he seemed quite annoyed.  
He allowed me in for divine grace and told me he had a lot to do. The servants were few, and the landlord particularly demanding and challenging to follow. Very few ever deigned to reach to the mansion and the fact that I had arrived at that time was both positive and a nuisance.

He swayed as he spoke, looking at me with a wary expression. He didn't put any particular impetus in his voice and was polite in a circumstantial manner. He was anonymous and quiet. He did not make me feel at ease, but didn't even drove me away. He looked me down repeatedly. He seemed to disapprove of me, but not because I was a stranger.  
I never understood the reason.

«The master is now resting. Even if it is up to me to make the most important decisions, I'll have to introduce you anyway. We need a stable boy, only this. You can have a room and a living wage, one day off per month and you can not accommodate anyone».  
I wanted to shake his hand, but he rocked back on.  
«Discretion, precision and discretion again», he said.

The interiors of the villa were delightful, elegant and refined. Vivid colors, a strong dominance of white lacquered wood and upholstery in the colors of water and mint. Fresh flowers everywhere in large compositions of busty calle, gentian petals and pistils of sapphire. No mirrors on the walls, but long fluttering curtains on the windows. Many carpets, but the furniture was never at the center of the rooms, always to the side. A corridor simple to cross was left free in every room and I imagined that the master was struggling to walk and could not engage too much in avoiding obstacles. Maybe he had a walking stick or was missing a limb.  
The stairs to the upper floor were large, white, made out of wood, with a simple curve. There was nothing too exaggerated, nothing flashy, nothing loud. It was so different from the largely paraded nobility of London, which made a traveling circus out of everything in order to stand out against the workers dirty with coal.

My guest had left me alone and so I decided to wander around a bit. I carried with me nothing more than a bag with few pieces of second-hand underwear. I knew that the servants' quarters were downstairs, towards the small cluster of trees, but curiosity led me up the stairs, then to the left, where the rooms became more shady and you could almost hear the rustling of the trees.  
The room to the west was a lovely study with soft chairs and a long table. The window left ajar made the soft silky curtains flutter and the carpet was a complex web of cream-colored flowers and mint. On the shelf of the unlit fireplace, three statues of porcelain depicting women with large baskets of flowers in their hands.  
It was a beautiful place, a place smelling good and fresh, a nice place to think.  
I held my breath when I heard the door open.

My host's eyes widened and, in strict silence, he brought the index finger on his throat, making me a sign that I would have been beheaded.  
Behind him, holding a walking stick made of refined white birch, walked the landlord.  
He wasn't visibly limping, he held the stick slightly tilted backwards, with the final tip projected forward. He seemed quite sure of himself and I quickly forgot the threat received.

For a moment I wondered if my mother's paintings, those paintings a bit too romantic that she painted in our living room based on the love books she rode, could possibly come to life.  
He was clear and delicate, pleasing. His hair curled at the tips, neatly combed and pulled back on his forehead. Freckles, an imperceptible veil of beard. Long eyelashes, eyes the color of mint. And on his face white as powder, a red mouth like lacquered porcelain. The narrow neck was wrapped in a white neckerchief, closed by a big cameo.  
His gestures were measured and harmonious, he walked to one of the chairs and didn't even notice me.  
It was when he sat down and kept on staring in front of him, it was then that I understood.

«What a lovely perfume, my dear Luke. Did you open the window?»  
«Yes, sir», he lied shamelessly, giving me a deep look full of hate.  
The landlord narrowed his eyes, bobbing his head.  
«...Mhhh the crispy scent of hay. Have we found a groom, my dear Luke?»  
Luke knocked on the table with a knuckle.  
«In this regard, my lord...» and he cleared his throat, motioning for me to introduce myself and come forward.  
I gasped. The landlord hadn't moved his head an inch, but he smiled gently, as if he had seen me.  
«I arrived today, my lord. M-my name is Christopher».  
I looked at the footman, terrified. What had I to do? Take the landlord's hand and shake it? Touch him in any way? But Luke had the air of someone who would kill anyone who dared to get too close to his master, so I stood straight like a pole.  
«You have a nice accent, Christopher».  
«I am Australian, my lord».

He had a sublime expressiveness. Acute and well painted, not exaggerated, but very specific. He was surprised of my statement and his lips widened in a smile.  
I did not know what it was, but I felt my heart burning.  
«What color is Australia, Christopher?» he asked.

«...It is brick red, my lord. A dark red, mottled with brown», I said after a short while.  
«And what color is this house?»  
«The color of mint, my lord».  
He narrowed his eyes, almost blissful.  
«I love the smell of mint».  
He smiled, snuggling in the chair.  
«Take good care of my horses. Especially of Joey».

 

My duties were few and the two horses were obedient and lazy.   
After the usual cleaning, I started training them with rope and whip, trying to put them back on track. Even my nag joined the routine. I rarely saw the master, but the more the days went by, the more I found myself thinking about him.  
I did not know his name. Neither his age. I just knew that he gave me a feeling of calmness and at the same time, my chest stirred in an anxiety that I did not understand. I had seen him once and I regretted it had been too short and careless. And I began to wonder many things about him.  
Was his skin cold?  
Was he to dress and comb like a porcelain doll?  
Had the sight abandoned him or had he never had the gift of it?  
Would he ask to be ridden aloud?

One day I saw him, sitting on the porch behind the windows, like a charming bird in a cage.  
And I waved hello, then I stopped and blushed, suddenly remembering that he could not see me, so I pushed the horse at trot and walked away as quickly as possible from that terrible show.

There were two other people in the house. Mathilda, the only woman, took care of the cleaning and cooking. Martin, her brother, was in charge of technical affairs. They were an odd couple, he barely reached the shoulder of his sister, and was jovial and pragmatic. Mathilda was an albino in appearance and icy in personality.  
Luke took care of the master. The master had no other but him.  
Luke didn't look kindly upon me.

Sometimes I would ride down to the middle of the slope, watching the clouds thickening towards the capital and smelling the moisture laden air. I missed my house by the ocean, the coarse sand of Australia, the calling of the dingoes at night. Then I would look behind me and wondered where would my master be sitting, lonely, with his lost gaze.  
And I would feel that I wanted to stay.

 

He called for me one afternoon and I was terrified of having made some rudeness.  
Luke seemed particularly angry and I hid my fingers crossed in the pockets of my riding breeches before entering the room.  
The landlord sat in the corner of a comfortable sofa, surrounded by an elegant room of creamy marble and turquoise.  
He had a book on his knees, engraved in those characters that Dr. Braille had invented a few years before.  
«Your scent tells me that you've arrived, Christopher».  
«You needed me, my lord?»  
Nodding, making any gesture, with him didn't work. I had to speak, and speak always the most cordially as possible.  
«What color is the day today?»  
«Green like the leaves of myrtle, my lord».  
He narrowed his eyes and smiled, happily.  
«I like the way you tell the colors. I can imagine things».  
«My mother was a painter, my lord. I know colors quite well».  
Again that look, delightfully surprised.  
«And do you dedicate yourself to art?»  
«No, my lord. All I do is observing».

He tapped a hand next to him, inviting me to sit down.  
«Enough of this -my lord- thing. Call me Thomas, like an old friend».  
I could distinctly hear the sound of Luke's ego falling into pieces.  
I sat down triumphantly.  
«What color are you, Christopher?»  
«A warm tone of yellow, like a daffodil».  
He moaned, enraptured.  
«And what about me? What color am I?»  
I remained silent.

To me, he was the rainbow.  
He had a tone of every color, a multifaceted perfection which, on a close-up, almost hurt to look. The hair and its waves, long eyelashes, eyes, mouth, skin, clothes picked with care. His soft voice, his manners, his hands resting gently on the pages of the book.  
«The color of a diamond».  
He frowned.  
«But diamonds have no color».  
«Or maybe they have them all. They just need to be hit by the sun».  
I felt him trembling, and I saw him visibly blushing.

I had never, ever in my life, fallen in love with someone.  
I was surrounded by girls, but to their company I had always preferred that of my mother and her poetic precision with brushes. It gave me a feeling nothing else could. The paintings, those large canvases that smelled of oil and toil, they invited me to be watched for hours, discovered in every possible detail. I would spend my days observing the result of my mother's passion, even when she wasn't there.  
And Thomas, to my eyes, he was like a painting.

 

He began calling me more often.  
I would sit beside him and he'd ask the colors of everything.  
He asked me the color of the sun, the color of the evening, the color of my eyes. The color of my travels, the color of London. He asked me the color of the crowd and the color of festivities.  
I described to him the colors of the hours, the months. The color of the morning with an early wake and that of the deep, agitated nights. He listened and imagined, and I was free to look at him as one of the paintings that I loved so much.

He had lost his sight a little earlier than a decade before.  
He rode Joey, freshly bought and trained. He enjoyed hurdle racing.  
He fell after a fierce buck, and when he opened his eyes, he could no longer see the sky.  
He could still remember the things he had seen, but he regretted ever having seen too little.  
And I would tell him everything I knew, recounting the nights in the Outback, where the dingoes sing and the wind kidnaps the sand, spreading it up among the stars.

Luke hated me.

  
I dared to lead Thomas out, one day, to meet his beloved Joey.  
Luke hardly ever left him out, inventing unfavorable weather conditions and thousand other excuses. He'd keep him in that beautiful porcelain cage, terrified that could ever be damaged.  
I held him by the arm and led him to the barn.  
I took his hands and placed them on the velvety muzzle of the horse, which received with joy the caresses of the master.

Thomas had tears in his eyes and trembling fingers and I couldn't resist. I held him by the shoulders, resting my forehead against the back of his neck.  
That was, I believe, our most intimate moment.  
I felt him shivering and crying. He loved that horse and at the same time he hated him. It was like meeting an old friend whom you loved so much, but had betrayed you and you've never found enough courage to forgive him.  
Joey was old, but still reminded his young jockey and sniffed his hands and tried to nibble the sleeves of his jacket.  
I had my hands on Thomas' shoulders, then I slid them on his chest and he asked me not to leave.  
He asked me what color that moment was and I told him it was black, because I was keeping my eyes shut.  
And he leaped and told me that, suddenly, the black he saw ahead of him every day had become an enchanting color.

  
I never needed to declare.  
In fact, I never said it.  
That I loved him madly.  
But I proved it every day.

  
I kissed him only once.  
He asked me to allow him to look at me, and I helped him placing his fingertips on my face.  
And with those lost eyes the color of mint, it was as if he could really see me, following the movement of his fingers along my cheekbones and chin. Oh, he had some fine lines around the eyes, which were delightfully accentuated when he smiled and squinted his eyes.  
I took his mouth and took his heart and took his life and exchanged them with mine.  
It was chaste, I did not demand anything. Just his soft lips pressed against mine, and his thin hands tight behind my back and his wheezing chest.  
And I told him that moment was white, because my head was spinning and he nodded, he said that he saw white too and fainted. I had to undo the neckerchief and fan him for a while.

Luke hated me.

  
I would watch him read, in complete silence, observing his fingers sliding on the white lines inscribed on paper, dreaming that he would caress me in the same way, reading what my body had to tell him.  
I would have gladly made love to him, lying about being in the dark just for the sake of watching him. And I began to dye my thoughts of all those colors that desire has, but he was so immaculate that I was afraid of blemishing him.

«For the first time, my dear Christopher, for the first time after so long, I can tell apart the day from the night. Before you arrived it was all the same, whether I was asleep or awake, I had lost the memory of both sunrise and sunset. But now, when I hear you speak for the first time after the silence, here begins the day. And when you talk to me for the last time before the silence, I understand the darkness of the night».

Luke hated me.

 

I wrote a letter to my brother, telling him that everything was fine.  
He answered back a few months later, informing me of my father's death.

I pressed Thomas against the corridor wall and put my head in the hollow of his neck.  
I told him I had to go and that I would have settled many things. I would have reopened my old house by the ocean, and would have made it perfect. Then I would have waited, welcoming and safe, to keep him with me in that red landscape. I would have written in a hurry and I would have waited. Then he would have arranged everything for his leave and finally joined me, like a beautiful flower that needs to be transplanted quickly.  
That was a carmine farewell.

 

~

 

He hears the door open, as every day, for the wake.  
He has dreamed so much. He waits.  
«Good morning, my lord».  
Luke's voice is the color of dark vanilla and is followed by the sliding of the curtains and the perfume of the trees.  
«Is there any mail for me, my dear Luke?»  
Silence.  
«No, sir».  
It will be another day the color of arsenic.

~

  
Luke leaves the room and walks away, then pulls out the envelope from the pocket of his vest.  
He stares at it, the paper carries the signs of a long journey.  
He walks down the stairs.  
In the kitchen, the fireplace is lit.  
The letter poorly stands against the little bites of the flames, and then gets tinged with sienna and ruby and ashes.

 

~

  
_Australia has no color without you._   
_My house on the ocean shore is ready to welcome thee._   
_Come, make haste, my love!_

_Your devotee,_   
_Christopher_

 


End file.
